


vivid, colorless

by ninata



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: ??? sort of, Freeform, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Psychosis, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5406275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninata/pseuds/ninata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot of thoughts. Based on a series of pieces from a pixiv artist, as well as general themes in art for Ishimaru/Ishida. Goes through pre-despair, the wiping of memories, pre-chapter 2, post-chapter 2, and Ishimaru's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	vivid, colorless

**Author's Note:**

> pixiv art mainly used is right here-- http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=48967141  
> jeez. i hope the artist doesn't find me and laugh at my writing...

The world gained color when you turned fifteen.

On August 31st of the year you went into Hope’s Peak Academy, you finally had a friend to speak of. His name was Mondo Oowada; he had bleached hair, sharp teeth, and seemed to be from a completely different world from you. A world without studies, distant from the fierce battle of morality, of justice. He was a thousand light years away, smiling so wide and laughing so loudly that it didn’t seem real.

Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe it’s never been real, maybe this whole world you’ve had with him was just a mistake, a dream, a delusion that you wake up from in a cold sweat with tears in your eyes. Maybe Mondo Oowada isn’t real. Maybe _you’re_ not real.

The two of you would walk to the train station together, bags in hand, talking, laughing, stepping in sync, the world painted in colors so bright your head spun.

Your skies were always yellow, a red sun’s rays coating everything in an unearthly light. If that was color, you couldn’t tell– it was never any different from shades of black and white to you.

_“Succeed.”_

_“Live.”_

_“Win.”_

Those words shaped your world, with its blank streets and endless cityscape, where everything was so terribly blurry you had to get close to see it. That was your world– that IS your world– why everyone looks at you strangely, why you do what you do and why you strive for success.

A thousand papers fall from the sky, their content changing from second to second. _“Kiyotaka Ishimaru for Prime Minister of Japan” “Kiyotaka Ishimaru, Prime Minister of Japan, involved in scandal” “Kiyotaka Ishimaru, failure to the nation”_ and always the face you never recognize and you suppose must be yourself.

But Mondo Oowada walked with you to the train station back from school. His heavy footsteps dragging against the pavement led you away just a bit farther from that world every day.

“Where are you taking me?” You’d ask, because sometimes it seemed his world’s streets were just as empty. What was the point in walking with some other person when the world was always the same? But, that was it– it wasn’t. His buildings had details, his streets felt real and a wonderful sunset enveloped the night. You were afraid of where he’d take you, why his world was so different and why you, an outsider, somehow felt welcome.

 _“Just follow.”_ he seemed to be saying, taking your hand, leading you to places you’d never thought you’d see. So many colors, purples and blues and oranges and greens, a humidity that felt more comforting than anything. His world was beautiful.

 _He_ was beautiful.

Walking through heat, fallen leaves, snow, sakura petals… Sharing a world, sharing lunch, sharing words and promises.

When did you realize you loved him? Was it your next birthday, when he surprised you with cake? Was it when his face fell and sadness pricked at his features when you were disappointed it was only him? Was it when he shouted, or whispered, or brushed his arm to yours? Was it when he blushed? Was it when he smiled?

Maybe you always loved him.

 _I want to stay like this forever,_ You thought, wrapped in his colors, learning how kindness from another person felt. _I never want to leave._

But simple want is never enough.

 

* * *

 

The whole room is black. The buckets all hold something bright white and shining. You’ve been painting for years, but the room is still black and you’re still painting.

_“Is it tiring?”_

That voice is so soothing. Your head thumps with blood, your body aches and your hands tremble and tremors and shaking, your whole world is. Shaking, you mean.

Your paint brush is thick with dried paint, clinging to the bristles and making every stroke gloppy and vague. The room is still so dark, so incapable of change, and no matter how long you take coating every inch of this terrible place with the white it doesn't do anything. It never does anything.

Your nauseating world of yellow and red is one thing– it’s yours. This world is different. This world is one of hatred and judgment, where change dependent on your efforts. If you can’t paint this room white, you _surely_ can’t do anything else.

Your hands have smears of white on them, faded at the ends of each stroke. The ways you try to change the world never succeed; they only mark you as something lesser than those around you. Your feelings never reach them. If only you weren’t a _burden_. If only your mouth wasn’t so full of spit and heavy with bothersome words. If only the whole world agreed that your justice was sound, and regarded you as someone who knew what they were doing.

Sometimes you get so sick of it you send the bucket tumbling, its bottomless white contents splattering a surprisingly little amount onto the floor. You pick it up in a heartbeat, knowing this is the path you’ve chosen. Petty frustration can’t deter you from your goal.

You’ve been painting for so long now. You’re exhausted, but you refuse to take a break.

_“Is it tiring?”_

You don’t know what that means.

_“Change it, then.”_

You can’t, you don’t know how. You’re sorry. You don’t know what any of it means. You’ve been working hard your entire life, but nothing ever changes. All you can do is hope for something to finally give. Hope it won’t be you.

Sometimes your mind is saturated with worry, knowing that your efforts are always stunted by your blunt demeanor. If only you weren’t you. You fear you’ll be your own undoing. You want to change as desperately as you want this world to change, but this is the only way you know how to do it. You can’t be expected to do something you don’t know. You want to at least be tolerable-- you want people to be able to bear being near you. Validation is your one selfish wish.

There’s a violence inside you, a madness that lies under the brim of your lips. You keep it tied together and tucked under your sleeves, knotted in your throat, thick in your veins and blocking the blood flow. You want it to fade. You want to be rid of it. You want to feel alive, real. You want to be as human as anyone else, able to make friends and say the correct words and be remembered. You want to connect.

_“Welcome despair into your heart...erase all your hope. Once you forget, they’ll see what the hope of their generation has become…”_

You wonder, vaguely, what that means. Why you’re so tired.

 

* * *

 

“If we’re stuck here together, I suppose it’ll be alright.”

You hug your knees, eyes closed and lashes brushing against your cheeks. There’s a whisper of wind; a distant sound of something alive, like a forest or a city. You don’t know which, but it doesn’t matter to you, anyway.

If you have to stay here, you’ll stay with him.

It’s nice, here– it’s nice to know someone, to speak to someone. It’s amazing to have a conversation that isn’t about last night’s homework. If you’d smiled before now, you wouldn’t know it.

You feel like you’re forgetting something important, but that’s okay. You really don’t mind, because no matter how loathsome it is not to have your studies, to be falling behind every other student your age– it’s...nice.

 _He’s_ nice.

Oowada-kun is so many things you thought you’d never know. It’s hard to explain, how it feels when someone isn’t spewing hatred at you. How after centuries and eons of cruelty from everyone you met, one person decided he wasn’t angry any longer. What did you do to deserve that? Surely he has an ulterior motive. Perhaps he wants to get his grades up. Maybe he’s lonely! Maybe he feels obligated to you, as so many people have.

Whatever it is, you still can’t see how anyone could stand you. How flowers can bloom, how the sun can shine, how Oowada-kun doesn’t seem to notice how horrible you truly are. This peaceful world is full of miracles, coincidences that color things in pastels and soft light. Your eyes don’t hurt when you look at him, there’s a nostalgic sense of familiarity around him.

If you stayed here until the walls crumbled, until nature took over, until the two of you sat side by side, wound together by flowers...that’d be nice.

You’d stay with him forever, despite wanting so desperately to leave. You’ll stay here until they rescue everyone, you’ll regret Kuwata-kun and Maizono-kun and Enoshima-kun couldn’t join you all. Maybe once it’s all over, you can ‘hang out’ with him, as so many people your age do with their friends. You’ll embrace this artificial sunlight. You’ll smile, and it’ll feel true.

 

* * *

 

  1. What is the definition of a friend?”




You’re not sure, and you never were.

You stare at your podium, the names of the students written in their characters. _A dancing garden. An island in the bay. A mulberry field. Two unblooming flowers._

Their names are all so pretty, you think. It’s a shame. Is it a shame? You don’t know.

Your whole body is rejecting itself, cells battling against each other like there’s an infection. He won’t even look at you. You heave forward, and you can feel everyone’s eyes on the floor. They won’t look at you either, nor him.

Why did it have to come to this?

Are you angry? Are you sad? Are you afraid? You’re all these things, a thousand things at once, and you stare at your podium. It’s still sitting there, taunting you.

What is friendship? Is there a proof for it? Solve for _(f)_ , perhaps? How algebra mocked you, how geometry mocked you, how maths in general mocked you as a child. You’re sitting with your protractor like you did in third grade, struggling to measure angles correctly. You’re in the middle of your middle school entrance exam, eraser shavings collected in your sleeves, messing up the slope formula.

Can you measure friendship? Can you determine someone’s trust in you, yours in them? Can you find concrete evidence that it won’t someday be turned against you? Can you ensure that your words will always reach him?

 _A big, peaceful rice field._ That’s the name you should be picking– such a wonderful, calm name. His given name is gaudy, but you like that, too.

You think you’re supposed to hate him at this point. You think you’re supposed to vote him to be brutally executed, you think you’re supposed to be disgusted and full of righteous fury. You should be striking down the murderer where he stands. This is how this world operates, how things have always been, how yellow and red and black and white all comingle and the bear in the throne makes _perfect_ sense!

You can’t laugh, because it wasn’t funny, anyway. You could never do any striking, not when it’s him. You can’t dream of a world where you hurt him, but apparently there’s no world where you help him, either. You couldn’t even destroy a single stuffed bear for his sake. _(Rules are meant to be followed, not broken. You can’t step out of line, Kiyotaka. This world is not yours to change, not yours to control. Listen to the authority.)_

Your head is pounding, feeling the individual arteries in your scalp pulsating and stabbing into your brain. You want to change this world; you have to, but you _can’t_. You just can’t. You’re worthless, in the end.

No amount of rigorous studying could ever be done to the point that you feel able to assess the situation properly. Nothing could have! That’s never happened to you before. Is it scary? It’s terrifying, and it doesn’t feel like your hands are attached to your body. They’re clenched on the podium, still sitting in front of you, the only thing keeping you grounded in this damned courtroom.

They’re going to be angry with you if you don’t decide, but you can’t vote for him.

You can’t kill Mondo Oowada.

You can’t do it when he’s hurting, you can’t do it when he’s apologizing, and you can’t do it when he’s accepted it. You thought you could talk Naegi-kun out of it, but he didn’t want to listen.

_Fill in the bubble for true or false for each question. Erase your answer completely before changing it._

  1. True or false– Mondo Oowada is your friend.




(True) (False)

  1. True or false– Mondo Oowada is a murderer.




(True) (False)

  1. True or false– Mondo Oowada should die.




(True) (False)

You’re sick of testing. You’re sick of voting for people’s lives. How could he simply _resign_ himself to this? Oowada-kun’s something more than that, he’s a man! He’s strong, he’s...he has so much willpower, so much warmth, so much compassion... no one has been so kind before, and you…

You feel so...calm around him. Your body doesn’t feel like it’s teetering on the edge of collapse, like you have to tear something up or start sobbing just to get the itch out of your palms. It’s almost bearable around him, even though he’s so many things you’d sworn to hate. He made you forget what it felt like to second guess every word, to regret what you say after the conversation ebbs, even if just for a moment. He’d smile, he’d slap your shoulder. He didn’t make you want to hate yourself. He didn’t make you feel like you were wrong. Oh, he’d tried. But you were almost sure he accepted you, supported you. He was the only person who had ever made you feel like you were...happy. He was the only one who...who you...

You have decided on your answer. You pick the name you despise the most, the name that shackled you to your goal.

_Perfection._

\- Naegi Makoto        - Sayaka Maizono   

\- Yasuhiro Hagakure        - Mondo Oowada

\- Junko Enoshima        - Byakuya Togami

 _ **> Kiyotaka Ishimaru**_         - Sakura Oogami

\- Chihiro Fujisaki        - Touko Fukawa

\- Aoi Asahina            - Leon Kuwata

\- Kyouko Kirigiri

 

* * *

 

“I hate you! I always have!”

Ishida is full of a rage you can’t describe, taking your fist and throwing it forward with all the might you've ever had in all the years you’ve been breathing. Ishimaru takes the punch, a dull look that never changes. You hate yourself, you hate this you that’s full of nothing but apathy.

_“It’s better this way. I didn’t deserve that happiness.”_

“Don’t say that!”

_“Good things aren’t meant to last. Kindness is fleeting. Justice can’t live in a world like this.”_

“Stop it!”

_“Nobody can save this world. Nothing is ever fair, nothing ever makes sense.”_

“That’s wrong! Everything in this world is true, everything exists because it should! Nothing happens that shouldn’t!”

_“Then why is he dead?”_

You close your hands around your neck. You squeeze tighter than your joints allow. You press the tips of your fingers in, feeling the strain in your knuckles, the pressure. You stare back at yourself, empty red irises without a bit of light reflected in them. Just your own image of brilliant white hair and flaming eyes.

“The world is supposed to make _sense,_ ” Ishida hisses, shaking Ishimaru by the throat. “There’s a _reason_ for suffering, just like there’s a _reason_ for good things. Right? That’s what they say. They say if you’re patient, good things will come to you. If you do your best, if you keep working your hardest, if you never let up even for a _moment_ , then something good will happen!”

_“What’s the point?”_

“I was going to do something-- I was going to _be_ someone! Everyone would be _proud_ of me! They’d _accept_ me, they’d _smile_ at me, they’d feel warm and inviting and they’d say nice things and I’d _believe_ them!”

_“I don’t believe anyone. I don’t trust anyone.”_

“Shut up! Shut _up!”_

_“There’s no point in this. I’m wasting time and resources. I’m not worth the effort. Life isn’t worth the effort. It never was, and never would be. I’m so tired, I just want to sleep.”_

“I have my goal in sight! I have to keep going! If I give up now, it’s all for nothing, isn’t it?! _Isn’t it?!_ I _can’t_ give up here! Don’t you want to _live?!”_ Your voice gives out. “Don’t you want to live…?”

_“No. I never did, and you know that. Especially not without him.”_

You squeeze tighter, but you won’t die, you won’t choke, you won’t even acknowledge the pain. You hate Ishimaru. You hate the way you drive people away, the way you bring out the worst in people.

_“The good thing happened, and it went away. Why do I need to keep trying? I’ve been running myself to the wire since I was nine years old. This world isn’t worth the effort-- it never was. The people are all scum, vermin that breed in their filth and hurt each other for their amusement.”_

“You can’t say that!”

_“I can’t take a world as uncertain, as illogical as this. It’s painful. When the pieces don’t fit together right, you can’t have a puzzle. Everything in this world-- in death, in the unknown, in human interaction, in kindness-- it’s too much. It’s overwhelming. I can’t take it all.”_

“Why?! Everyone else can handle it. Why can’t you?!”

 _“It’s too much.”_ There’s no emotion in Ishimaru’s voice. Simple words, pulling on your lips and spilling out of your mouth. _“It always has been. I can’t make everyone happy. A useless person like me doesn’t deserve this life.”_

“Why are you like this?! Why am _I_ like this…? Why did it end up like this?”

_“You know why. Because he’s dead. I...never deserved his smile, his gaze. He was kind. I was an idiot. And now he’s dead. It’s our fault.”_

“...I’m not you.”

_“You are me. We’re the same.”_

“I’m not you! I _refuse_ to be!” Ishimaru is silent. Ishida raises your voice. “I’m tired of this! I’m tired of your _stupid_ whining! I’m _me,_ now-- I’m not an Ishimaru, I’m not anyone but myself, and I’m going to make you pay...I’m gonna make you _pay!_ It’s _your_ stupid fault, your _shitty stupid fucking fault,_ you _goddamn_ son of a _bitch!_ I’m _me!_ I’m going to make _EVERYTHING_ right, and you’re going to _stop fucking staring at me!”_

You dig a hand’s nails into the flesh of your face, pulling down, lines of red following, flowers peeking from behind the skin and blooming out into the air. Your fingers push past the petals, wrenching them around until it’s pulp and mess and blood. You put everything you have into every blow, every scratch, every kick, every punch, every bite and yanking limb from limb, organs bruised and bone cracked and pushing through white fabric stained red.

You’ve been crying and you don’t know why.

You push your hands into the viscera and pull it all apart. Intestines, shards of bone, a stomach, muscle, the heart, you smash it all until it’s all nothingness and flowers and everything’s so beautiful, your vision is tainted with the red of your own blood and your vision is blurred by the thick tears that snake down your face.

When you go out for breakfast the next morning, everyone stares at you like they’re afraid. You don’t pay them any mind.

Ishida is clarity. Ishida is something Ishimaru never could have been.

 

* * *

 

“I’m so glad you’re here, brother.”

He doesn’t speak, he just sits next to you. That’s alright, you like his company.

The heat of the sauna is like the warmth of an embrace. You had never wanted to be close to someone before, never wanted to know what their arms felt around you, how their hands felt in yours.

“I think I forgive you,” You say, a hand swiping through white hair. “I know that’s terrible, but Hell. You’ve paid enough for it. I just hope you apologized to Fujisaki…”

_“I did. Don’t worry. You think I’d just do that ‘n never say sorry?”_

You give a short laugh. “Nah. I’m not that stupid.” You lean back, feeling the wood of the wall on your sweating back. It hurts to move in this stale air, but you persevere. “You’re a good person, brother. I don’t blame you.”

_“...But, y’know, Ishida…”_

“Yeah?”

_“Wasn’t it your fault I was caught?”_

“...Eh?”

_“In that trial...if you hadn’t said anythin’ about the jacket, I prolly wouldn’t’ve slipped up.”_

“H...Huh?” It’s like someone’s dumped cold water all over you. It stings terribly, it makes your stomach feel crushed.

_“The track jacket-- you were the one who brought it up. If you hadn’t said anythin’...I’d be alive right now. Didja forget? Ain’t it important enough to ya?”_

“H-Ha...Brother, that’s not…”

_“It’s all your fault, Ishimaru.”_

“Don’t call me…”

_“It’s your fault you didn’t stop me. You weren’t a good enough friend...anybody would’a noticed how stressed I was if they cared.”_

“B-But I...I…” Your hands tighten on the edge of the bench you sit on.

_“You’re terrible, Ishimaru. What kind of ‘brother’ are you? You couldn’t protect me. You couldn’t protect Fujisaki. And you didn’t do a damn thing when they dragged me out like an animal…”_

“I t-tried...I tried, I wanted to, b-but, I…”

_“Didn’t care enough? Put some bear’s rules before me?”_

“I...I can’t break rules. I can’t do it. There are things in this world that are certain, things that can’t be done, and I...Y-You wouldn’t understand, it’s...it’s more than this, I can’t do it, I couldn’t do it, I’m sorry, I couldn’t,”

_“You’re so weak. You know I hate weak people. I hate people like you, Ishimaru.”_

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry”

_“Shut up. You were never my friend.”_

You’re on your knees in front of his coat that you took to the sauna, unable to look at it, hot tears burning trails down your face. The only sound that hits the walls is your cracked voice apologizing over and over.

You’re not sure you can continue like this.

 

* * *

 

“Goodbye, now, Naegi!”

_“Ishimaru-kun–”_

“That’s not my name! I’m Ishida now! I’m _Ishida!”_

His arms wrap around the corpse, the shell of what you once were. Ishimaru.

 _“Please stop this,”_ He calls, but you have to go. With the swing of a pickaxe the police tape is broken, the boundaries of your technicolor world broken, whatever ties you had left to this miserable planet broken. It’s all broken, and you don’t think it was ever whole.

You walked past your blank buildings, stepped over cracked pavement and dirty papers. You found the ends of your world, the edge of the cage that kept you trapped within your own mind. All it took was a note, an obvious trap. Your way out was solid, solid as the pickaxe in your hand.

“Goodbye, now!” A hysterical voice calls out, and you almost can’t recognize it as your own.

You want to feel indignant. You want to feel mad at whatever’s pulling the strings for making all this happen, but you can’t. You just want to give up. It’s not just him, it’s _everything_. It was always too much. You want to take a break, an endless break where your head is clear and your heart isn’t beating out of your chest. Have you ever relaxed before? Was there ever a moment you weren’t in terrible stress?

_“There’s nothing over that way. You’re going to fall. You’re going to die.”_

Even a voice of reason isn’t enough to make you feel bad for leaving this all behind. The only thing that could stop you is dead, melted down into butter.

You’ve hated yourself so thoroughly for so long. Not because of some petty reason like ugliness; because you had to, and you don’t know for certain why. Because people told you to? Because everything in your life led you towards it, because it was preordained? It’s hard to say. All you know is that it’s eaten you up, turned you into something you can’t keep down anymore.

“Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye!”

You can’t live like this. You never could.

Your head's a mess of a thousand different things, and you can’t bear to think any longer. The only way to get out of your head is probably to die; you’d feel bad for letting it happen if you cared. You don’t have the energy to be worried about pleasing everyone anymore.

Your whole life was a tightrope walk, the heels of your feet blistered and calloused. You couldn’t take a toe out of line, you couldn’t do anything that could possibly hurt another person. It was all you ever did, but it was never without punishment. A trillion mistakes stitched into your skin, streaks of white paint and bruises and flower petals and so many things screaming at you to give up.

You’re going to give them what they want. You’re going to do what you were always too afraid to do, and still can’t bring yourself to do by yourself.

You just want to see _him_ one more time. Just once.

You know Yamada-kun won’t be tardy, because he’s on a schedule. He’ll do his job, you’ll die with all your might.

You’ll do a good job of it.

You take a step off the edge and go tumbling with a smile on your face.


End file.
